


The Book of Gand, Part the First: The Findsman's Son

by Findswoman



Series: The Book of Gand [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Culture, Alien Mythology/Religion, Alien Rituals, Angst, Family Drama, Father-Son Relationship, Gand - Freeform, Gand Findsmen, Gen, Occasional violence, father-son violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 07:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30119526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman
Summary: The beginning of a chronicle of a young Gand’s early years and apprenticeship in the ways of the Findsman, taking place around 10–15 BBY.
Series: The Book of Gand [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2216559
Comments: 5
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This first part of _The Book of Gand_ was originally posted between April and July 2014 on the Jedi Council Forums at TheForce.net (the original story thread is [here](https://boards.theforce.net/threads/the-book-of-gand-mostly-ocs.50019763/)). Chapters were beta-read by **Kahara_the_ghostly_galoomp** , **WarmNyota_SweetAyesha** , and **Ewok_Poet**.

Far on the outskirts of charted space, the mist-shrouded planet of Gand orbits an uncharted star. Its swirling mists, churning fogs, and brightly colored clouds are revered as divine by all its inhabitants. Though most travelers’ guidebooks state that this most mysterious of worlds is governed by an absolute monarchy (and, indeed, its temporal government is still controlled by members of the Pngrud dynasty), even the Supreme Monarch himself had to defer to the immeasurable spiritual power wielded by the hierarchy of the Findsmen, the mystical hunter-priests who were at once shamans and enforcers of the law.  
  
Even during the Galactic Civil War, and the time of turmoil that followed, Gand remained untouched and at peace, her pocket colonies floating tranquilly among swirling clouds as they had for countless millennia before. During these years, in the large and prosperous pocket colony of Rhaguin, there lived the Master Findsman Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd. Fengor was one of the most celebrated Findsmen of his generation, the scion of one of the most ancient and highly respected Findsman families on all of Gand, and he could trace his lineage back almost a full millennium. As Chief of the Council of Master Findsmen and the most senior of the _ruetsavii_ —the ritual examiners of worthy Gands—he occupied a very exalted place in the hierarchy of Findsmen, practically second only to the Elders of Gand themselves. Fengor’s wife, Otila, of the family of Khassvani, was herself a well-regarded practitioner of the Sacred Trade and the chief keeper of the archives and library at the Great Temple, the central shrine of the Findsman hierarchy situated at the north pole of Gand.  
  
The fame and talent of both had earned them the highest honor possible in Gand society: the privilege of _janwuine_ , authorizing them to refer to themselves in the first-person singular instead of the third-person used by most Gands. But Fengor also held an honor far more exalted even than _janwuine_ , an honor available only to the first-born males of the family of Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd and one of which even the Supreme Monarch himself stood in awe. Fengor was the Guardian of Trynfor’s Vault.  
  
More than a millennium ago, Zukfel Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd—Fengor’s distant but direct ancestor—had been the closest, most faithful friend of the greatest Findsman that Gand had ever known: the legendary Trynfor the Mad, who wore robes of all black and whose golden eyes were said to gaze upon the Mists in Their true, divine form. According to legend, it was to Zukfel alone that the Holy Madman, on his deathbed, had entrusted his greatest treasure, which Zukfel had then entombed deep in the crypt of the Great Temple. From that day forward, none except Zukfel and his direct male descendants knew what this secret treasure was, for Trynfor had bound his friend with a mystical oath never to reveal its identity to anyone. It was said that this mystical bond was so strong that no son could know what was in the Vault while his father still lived.

* * *

Fengor and Otila had two fine sons. The elder had almost completed his apprenticeship in the ways of the Findsman, and in the course of his studies had earned the use of both his family name and of the given name Gorruss. But the younger son of Fengor and Otila still had no name and knew nothing yet of his family’s illustrious history, or of the mystical secret it was so privileged to guard. All he knew was that his parents and brother were great and powerful Findsmen, and he longed to be like them. Someday, he hoped, he too would be apprenticed to a Master Findsman and become initiated into the secrets of the Sacred Trade, for ever since his early childhood he had been fascinated by its ways. Whenever his father or mother went to the meditation chamber in the library of their home, he would sneak in after them and watch as they chanted, prayed, and meditated. Occasionally he would pull down some of the large mystical books in the library and try to read their arcane script, for which his father berated him frequently. When his elder brother visited home, he would beg him to tell him all about his studies and missions, then tire him out play-dueling with brooms, sticks, and his toy dart gun. When his brother was not at home, he did the same with other children who lived nearby, most of whom were also children of Findsmen.  
  
Gand had a circle of playmates his age, most of them children of Findsmen, with whom he joined every week in mock Hunts. They would make blasters and vibroblades out of sticks and twigs and household implements, and wrapped themselves in their parents’ dressing gowns, pretending they were wearing the Findsmen’s traditional long robes. Some children would hide in trees or behind parked speeders, and their playmates would “Hunt” for them: sitting in trees or on the ground, they would chant and wave their hands around in childlike imitation of the Findsman’s ceremonies. After a few minutes, pretending to have received intuition, they would spring up and run off in search of their “fugitive” friends. Once the “prey” was found, much make-believe dueling and stunning would ensue. Their parents watched these games with great pride, for they more than mere children’s diversions: they also served as an important introduction to the Trade for those hoping someday to become apprenticed.  
  
One particularly overcast day, under a sky hung with dull, blue-gray mists, young Gand pulled on his heaviest tunic, jumped into his sturdiest britches, and cinched up his belt. There was an eager gleam in his eye as he rummaged in his closet, pulling out various survival accoutrements and mock weapons and attaching them to his belt: a small glowrod, a child’s plastoid knife, and his favorite: a little dart gun looking like a scaled-down snare rifle. He was preparing for a mock Hunt, as he had done many times before; he and six others would be Hunting for one of their playmates, called Gand like all the rest of them, in the Secular Capital—the seat of Gand’s civil government and the largest city in the colony of Rhaguin. Previous mock Hunts had been confined to single districts or parks or subdivisions, but this time the quarry could be hiding literally anywhere in the Capital.  
  
Gand strode downstairs to the anteroom to meet his father, who would accompany him to the central rendezvous appointed for this mock Hunt. The parents of the participating children often served as chaperones in these mock hunts, making sure that all the participants behaved in accordance with the Findsman’s codes of honor, and today Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd was appointed to be one of the three adults serving that function.  
  
His mandibles clicked open in surprise to find his mother waiting there instead, clad in full field attire, her hands clasped palms-up in front of her in a traditional gesture of blessing. He had not expected to see her, because for the last several days she and the other archivists of the Great Temple had been investigating the loss of a very valuable holocube from the archives. She had told him about it just the other day—it was the only surviving copy of the log of Ossluk Noslee, a great Findsman from several millennia ago.  
  
“There you are, dear son,” she said. “Are you ready?  
  
“Yes, Mother, but . . . what about Ossluk’s holocube? Have you found it yet?”  
  
“No, Khassvani has not.” His mother exhaled with a hiss; her demoted self-reference by birth-family name bespoke anxiety and shame. “No one has found it yet, though the entire staff of the archive is still searching day and night.” She paused; her son gave a quiet clack of sympathy. “But no matter. Otila thought a nice mock Hunt in the city with you would help ease her mind, so she asked your father if he would let her take his place today. Naturally, he agreed.”  
  
Gand gave a few clicks of amusement, which his mother returned. Every time his father had been called in to chaperone a mock Hunt, he had grumbled and muttered about how he had better things to do than play children’s games.  
  
“Now let us be off,” she said. And so they were.

* * *

The Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd family lived in the area known as the Ridge, the refined suburbs of the Capital, comfortably free from the urban hustle and bustle, yet still within convenient distance of the city center. Thus it was not long before Gand and his mother reached the initial rendezvous point for the day’s mock Hunt—in this case a small temple near the beginning of the city’s main street. His mother blessed him and brushed her palps on his forehead.  
  
“Remember,” she said, “don’t forget to engage the safety on your dart gun when you’re not using it, and don’t spend any of your pocket money unless it is an emergency. Mother loves you.”  
  
Gand took his leave, twitched his tunic about his shoulders, and headed off toward the city center. He had never been there alone before. When he had been in the past to accompany his parents or brother to the specialized tailor’s shops that purveyed Findsmen’s garb and equipment. He knew there was a marketplace because it was on the way to the tailor’s shop favored by his parents, but he knew no more than that. It exhilarated him to think that soon he would walking through the city all alone with only his intuition to guide him—and not for any boring visit to the tailor, either. For adventure, quarry, and reward!  
  
Downtown consisted mainly of tall, nondescript buildings, into and out of which harried-looking businessfolk and guildsfolk poured in a continuous stream. Gand slipped into an alley here and there to do some sneaking around in the shadows—again, not only in imitation of his elders, also in order to practice the important Findsman’s skills of hiding and sneaking. At the end of one alley, he saw a large square looming before him, more crowded than any of the narrow streets he had just seen, with the colorful pennants of guilds and vendors flying high overhead. This, no doubt, was the marketplace.  
  
Gand stood and pondered for a moment. It didn’t seem probable that his quarry would be in such a public, well-populated venue. And yet . . . could the milling crowd itself be his hiding place?  
  
Armed with this hunch, Gand rushed head-on into the swarm of marketgoers. He went from booth to booth, searching each one from top to bottom. But none of the Gand children he saw was the right one. For the next several hours he examined everything he could get his stubby, undergrown little claws on—wares, storage containers, parked speeders, anything that was not nailed down or too heavy. Yet his efforts yielded no new clues, only the righteous indignation of vendors and customers.  
  
“Young one, have your parents ever taught you the meaning of ‘Do not touch’?”  
  
“Young one, please be so kind as to take your dirty hands out of Ooqlib’s fruit at once.”  
  
“Young one, if Rnnok ever catches you in his cargo hold again . . .”  
  
Escaping as quickly as could from the marketplace down the first alley he could find, Gand hunkered down on a closed rubbish bin and sulked. Precious hours wasted in that befoggèd market for nothing but the nagging of crusty money-grubbing Seculars. To make things worse, some three-quarters of his pocket money now belonged to a portly, purple-chitined crystal merchant, one of whose largest and most ornate vases he had inadvertently sent to a clattering death. So much for his mother’s warning.  
  
He racked and racked his brains, but no new ideas were coming to mind. Only his original hunch remained insistently in his mind: that the quarry was somewhere in the marketplace, using his very visibility to hide himself. A tempting possibility, but it would require some meditation. So Gand crossed his legs under himself, folded his hands in his lap, and closed his eyes, just as he had often seen his parents do.  
  
But no sooner had he assumed this meditative position and closed his eyes than loud, youthful voices broke his reverie.  
  
“Look! He’s meditating!”  
  
“Does he really know how?”  
  
“That’s what they say, but Gand doesn’t believe it . . . ”  
  
Gand opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by children his age, the other participants in this mock Hunt. Gand sat up as tall as he could and looked the others squarely in the eye.  
  
“Greetings,” he said calmly. “How goes the Hunt?”  
  
None returned his greeting. “What in fog’s name do you think you’re doing?” demanded a lad with black eyes. “Sitting on your abdomen here in the alley while _we’re_ all out here cracking our chitin looking around for Gand with the green eyes?”  
  
Gand calmly ignored his peer’s use of the first-person plural, a shocking breach of his species’s self-referential etiquette.  
  
“Gand is meditating,” replied he in the loftiest tones he could manage.  
  
“Meditating? But of course,” answered the black-eyed Gand. “ _Oooh, akauóne vi Trynfor . . . Nyni prisniv viki vikov . . ._ ” His fellows joined in as he closed his eyes and waved his arms exaggeratedly, chanting nonsense words in a mocking, singsong voice.  
  
Gand ignored this too. “And what are you doing?” he asked the group.  
  
“Hunting, of course.”  
  
“For whom?”  
  
“For Gand with the green eyes, of course, like you,” hissed the black-eyed youngster.  
  
“Well, then, go hunt him. He’s the quarry. Does this Gand look like he has green eyes?” He tapped his chest with one claw.  
  
“But these Gands came to Your Mystical Honor,” taunted another rather thickset young male, bowing exaggeratedly, “because they know of Your Mystical Honor’s peerless intuitive talents and wished to ascertain if Your Mystical Honor has received intuition as to the quarry’s whereabouts.”  
  
 _Well,_ Gand thought, _perhaps this means none of them have found him either._ His middle mandibles clicked as a scheme formed in his mind.  
  
“Well, listen, then,” he began. “Here is what the Sacred Visionary Mists have revealed to this Gand. Gand with the green eyes, the quarry, is currently hiding in the utility shed out behind _your_ house”—he jabbed his claw into the chest of the thickset lad, whose mandibles clacked open in surprise—“in the Green Fogs District at the northern edge of the Ridge.”  
  
“Really?” answered the lad, his mouthparts gaping open stupidly.  
  
“Yes, really.”  
  
“Just a minute,” piped up the black-eyed Gand. “If this is so, then why are _you_ still here? Why aren’t you in the Green Fogs District apprehending him yourself?”  
  
“Because Gand believes in helping his friends and wants them to have a sporting chance at the quarry. Is that an acceptable answer?”  
  
All was quiet for a moment. The black-eyed boy fidgeted uneasily.  
  
“No good hanging around here,” someone said at last. “Off to Green Fogs.” They all trooped away down the alley.  
  
Gand clicked smugly to himself. His plan had worked. No sooner had the group of boys turned their backs than he made his way back toward the marketplace. His hunch about his quarry’s whereabouts felt stronger than ever, as if confirmed by the Mists themselves. His exchange with his playmates had been just as effective as meditation, in a much shorter amount of time. And he had not even needed to use his dart gun.  
  
With these happy thoughts in his head, Gand strode confidently into a produce booth at the edge of the marketplace. And sure enough, there was Gand with the green eyes, his playmate and the quarry for whom he had Hunted long and hard that day, browsing through a colorful array of fruits and vegetables with a tall and genteel-looking Findsman, no doubt his father. Gand walked up to his young playmate, grabbed his arm securely in his claws, and uttered the traditional formula for apprehending quarry:  
  
“By authority of the Findsmen Elders of Gand, you are apprehended in the name of the Sacred Visionary—”  
  
He broke off suddenly. A completely new intuition had burst in on his mind like an exploding bomb. Without releasing his grip on his green-eyed friend, he turned slowly toward the father, who was browsing through a basket of round blue fruit. Then, suddenly, he thrust his free hand into the deep pocket of the father’s robe, grabbed something from it, and turned tail and ran as fast as he could, pulling his bewildered quarry along with him.  
  
For a moment the Findsman was immobile with surprise and disbelief, then took off after him, eyes flashing angrily.  
  
“What do you think you’re—STOP!”  
  
But young Gand did no such thing. Still pulling the other youngster behind him, he bolted through the market as fast as he could, weaving dexterously through the crowd of marketgoers. His friend’s father was in hot pursuit but was less fleet on his feet due to his age and heavy gear, and Gand quickly outstripped him. Even so, he did not stop until he had finally reached the temple that served as the rendezvous point. Besides his mother and the two other adult chaperones, three other imposing-looking Findsmen in elaborate ceremonial robes were there, one with an impressive-looking shockstaff.  
  
“The quarry is apprehended,” he announced in lofty tones, bowing as he handed the other youngster over to the assembled adults in the traditional manner. “And Mother . . . look.”  
  
He handed her the object he had taken from the green-eyed Gand’s father—a small, iridescent golden cube.  
  
“By the Mists . . .” she breathed, and began to examine it on all sides. “The inscription is correct . . . so is the acquisition code . . . Young one, where did you get this?”  
  
Before Gand could answer, the quarry’s father burst in.  
  
“What is the meaning of this?!” he blustered. “Give that back at once!”  
  
“From him!” said Gand to his mother, gesticulating with his claw. “From his pocket!”  
  
“Why, you miserable little thief—”  
  
“Otila’s son is not the thief in this case,” said Otila, eyeing the father coldly and holding up the recovered holocube. “It apparently was you, Syrok Vrixx’tt,who made off with one of the most valuable pre-Trynforian holodocuments in the archives of the Great Temple. You are under arrest for grand theft by the authority of the Sacred Visionary Mists, and you shall answer to the Zigaatsavii-taa.”  
  
Finding himself confronted by none other than the chief archivist of the Great Temple and faced with an appearance before the highest legal court on Gand, Syrok fell into crestfallen silence. One of the parental chaperones clapped stun cuffs on him, and the Findsman with the shockstaff escorted him from the temple, occasionally prodding him in the shoulder with his weapon. Another of the parents put a comforting arm around the green-eyed son and led him out.  
  
For several moments all was silent in the barren stone interior of the temple. The remaining adults were clustered around young Gand; four pairs of gleaming compound eyes were gazing on him in combined curiosity and awe.  
  
At last, one of the two newcomers in ceremonial robes nodded to his companion, who pulled a small strip of parchment from inside his robe and began to write something on it with a _gree-graak_ quill. When he finished he handed it to young Gand and saluted him with a hand cupped across his chest; the others did the same.  
  
Gand read in muted tones:  
  
“By the Will and Authority of the _Sacred Visionary Mists_ the _Ruetsavii_ and _Findsmen Elders_ of _Gand_ hereby declare that Gand, son of Fengor _saa_ Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd and Otila _saa_ Khassvani _uur_ Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, by virtue of notable accomplishments beyond his years, has been deemed worthy of his family’s name, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd. Their visionary blessings be upon him always.”


	2. Chapter 2

As the weeks passed, the story of young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd’s recovery of the stolen holocube spread throughout the colony of Rhaguin. He became alternately awed and feared by the children with whom he still participated in mock Hunts, and they always went to great lengths to win him to their side and enlist his meditative help, for he was the only one of their number to have achieved the distinction of a name. Otila’s pride in her younger son knew no bounds, and she continued encouraging him in his mock Hunts; it became her dream, as well as his, to see him eventually apprenticed to a Master Findsman in order to learn the Sacred Trade.  
  
But with his father it was different. The first time his wife and son told him about the incident, Fengor responded with disbelief: it was simply not possible for a child, he insisted, as yet untrained in the Findsman’s sacred meditative arts, to receive such sudden information from the Mists, whether about his quarry’s whereabouts or the location of the missing holocube. Children were always pretending at such things during mock hunts, he said; that his son’s make-believe intuition had come true, he claimed, was mere chance. Even when his fellow _ruetsavii_ stopped in hallways of the Great Temple to congratulate him—for the elaborately clothed Findsmen his son had seen upon his return to the rendezvous point had indeed been _ruetsavii_ —he responded with angry glares, growls of displeasure, or both. With his young son he became distant and irritable; even more troublingly, he continued referring to the boy simply as Gand, as if he had never earned a name at all.  
  
Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd did not understand his father’s reactions. They had been exactly the opposite when his older brother, Gorruss, had first shown his intuitive potential—gaining him his family name—and had become apprenticed to a Master Findsman. Back then, his father been unable to contain his pride and elation; he had lavished Gorruss with praise, talked effusively about his son’s accomplishments at every possible opportunity, and even before his apprenticeship brought him along to assist him on his own missions. But now it was different, and it made no sense. Why should any Findsman not be proud and grateful to see his child gifted with the gifts of the Mists? Why was his father showing such coldness to him when had he been so proud of Gorruss? But even so, he still respected his father as a great and powerful Findsman, and the colder Fengor became toward his son, the keener his son became to win back his father’s good will.  
  
One day, when one of his mock Hunts in the Secular Capital was called off because of inclement weather, young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd pleaded with his father to bring him with him to the Great Temple for the day. Fengor grumbled and fumed, protesting that the _ruetsavii_ were holding a very important meeting that morning. But his son persisted, and he eventually consented.  
  
“Very well. But I do this only because your mother is engaged in her research and not present to look after you. I hope that is clear.”  
  
“Yes, Father.”  
  
“You will behave yourself accordingly before the honored _ruetsavii._ Do you understand?”  
  
“Yes, Father!”  
  
“And don’t grind your mandibles at me, boy!”  
  
“Sorry, Father.”  
  
Soon Fengor and his youngest son were walking together through the halls of the Great Temple at the north pole of Gand. The father was an imposing presence in ceremonial robes of deep midnight blue, edged with silver trim that perfectly matched his eyes. The mystical words of the First Revelationary Ode were embroidered around the edge of the shoulder cape that betokened his rank as one of the chief _ruetsavii_. A jeweled pocket chronometer hung from his belt, inlaid with the family emblem of the Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd: a black clawed hand grasping a golden orb, crossed by a dagger and an old-fashioned toothed key that looked almost like a weapon, both black. Findsmen and servants bowed to him as he passed. His son shuffled nervously beside him in a stiff-collared white tunic and a lightweight knit cape that fell to his knees.  
  
Several corridors and two locked doors later, they reached the Guardian’s Quarters, the private Temple apartments that were Fengor’s privilege as the Guardian of Trynfor’s Vault. Off to one side of the gold-ceilinged round central room was a dark-curtained meditation alcove. This Fengor entered in order to spend a few minutes of meditative preparation before his meeting, as was his custom. While his father meditated, the young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd paced about in the central room of the apartment, admiring the large statue that adorned it.  
  
Crafted of smooth black stone that glinted with tiny flecks of golden mica, the statue portrayed two figures that were slightly larger than life. The first was an older male Gand in Findsman’s attire of an ancient style, reclining on his side on a bed with bedcoverings draped over him from the hips down. He was turned toward a second figure, another Findsman, who was kneeling beside the bed; the two figures were clasping hands in a gesture of sincere friendship. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd marveled at the meticulous detail of the sculpture, from the eye facets and mouthparts to the flowing folds of the drapery and the mystical runes that encircled the entire bottom edge of the bedcovering; they were in the ancient, arcane script of the Book of Light, intelligible only to initiated Findsmen.  
  
After some minutes Fengor emerged. The two left the Guardian’s Quarters, proceeded through another series of corridors, and arrived at last at the council chamber of the _ruetsavii_.  
  
“Now you will stay on the bench and will not wander off. Nor will you make the slightest sound. Is that absolutely clear?”  
  
“Yes, Father.”  
  
With that, they entered. The council chamber was a round, high room with stone walls and lit with sodium-vapor sconces that cast a misty golden light. Several high-ranking Findsmen and Findswomen sat at a round table of white stone. As Fengor entered and took his place they rose to their feet, simultaneously saluting and bowing. Fengor took his place and returned the gesture. His son retired obediently to a bench off to one side.  
  
The meeting began. First came an opening prayer for the guidance of the Mists, chanted in monotone by all present; then a few minutes of meditative silence; then a slow, solemn reading of the order of business for the meeting, also in monotone chant; then another moment of silence for the recently departed . . . Young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd had never seen a meeting of the _ruetsavii_ before, but he quickly came to the conclusion that there was not much to see. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander, wishing he could be out play-Hunting with his friends in the city. Or even really Hunting, like Gorruss, who just the week before had departed with his Master Findsman to R’Kalýma, the most mountainous of Gand’s pocket colonies, to track down missing and fugitive mine workers. That was real Findsman’s work . . .  
  
Mountains. Slowly, like an image coming into focus on a viewscreen, they appeared in his intuition’s eye, standing noble and ice-capped as they had for hundreds of generations, their peaks reaching upward to the misty stratosphere. Among them was Mount Rhangneth’tha, one of the tallest peaks in R’Kalýma, conspicuous by the numerous precariously balanced rock formations lining its slopes. He noticed Intuition’s Hand, the largest and most distinctive of these formations, in whose palm Trynfor the Mad once sat and meditated three stormy days and nights in a row.  
  
“Mount Rhangneth’tha . . . ” he whispered. “Intuition’s Hand . . .”   
  
He shifted uneasily on the bench. A nearby Findsman with greenish chitin, friendly silver eyes, and slightly hunched shoulders turned to look at him, thinking he had heard something from the lad, but decided that he had not and turned again to his colleagues. In any case, young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd had not seen him, for all he could see now was Mount Rhangneth’tha and its curious rocks. He thought he saw two Findsmen—his brother and his brother’s master—making their way along the rocky ledges slowly upward toward Intuition’s Hand. And he knew he saw Intuition’s Hand move . . . and he knew what would happen next.  
  
“Intuition’s Hand will fall.”  
  
His voice was louder this time, but only by a little, and still calm. A few of those assembled turned their heads toward him.  
  
“Did the young one speak?” asked the Findsman who had looked at him a moment before.  
  
“INTUITION’S HAND IS FALLING!”  
  
“YOU! Did I not tell you to keep quiet?!”  
  
Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd jolted awake to see his father standing over him, glaring down at him angrily with flashing silver eyes. Several of his colleagues turned their heads toward them in uncomfortable curiosity.  
  
“Sorry, Father, but—it’s there . . . Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd can see it . . .  
  
“See it? See what?” barked Fengor. “What in the name of the Holy Madman are you talking about, young one?”  
  
“Intuition’s Hand . . . Oh, there goes the second claw! And Gorruss is almost there . . . ”  
  
“Gand, what is this?” Fengor was almost shouting. “How dare you waste my time and that of the honored _ruetsavii_ with your childish outbursts!”  
  
The hunched, greenish Findsman, who had first heard the boy speak, leaned over to Fengor and tapped him gently on the shoulder.  
  
“Friend Fengor,” he volunteered, timidly, “If Volokoss may . . . if it is true . . .”  
  
“Do not interfere, Ratokk,” growled Fengor in reply, barely looking at him. “Now, you, young one, not another word, or I’ll—”  
  
“Oh, the third claw’s down . . . and the palm . . .”  
  
“GAND!”  
  
“THE PALM! GORRUSS! TURN BACK!”  
  
“YOU WRETCHED LITTLE—”  
  
Fengor grabbed his son by the collar of his knitted cape, lifting him from the bench as he did so. All at once the younger Gand’s eyes and mandibles clacked open to their fullest, as if he had snapped suddenly from a trance.  
  
“Sorry, Father! Please—”  
  
With a grumble Fengor released his son into the bench, then returned to his place at the council table. “Apologies, honored _ruetsavii_ ,” he mumbled.  
  
The meeting continued as before. The young Gand himself curled up in a ball, his head turned downward and away from the assembly so they could not see him trembling and sobbing. How could his father be so angry? It was not as if he could close his mind to the revelation the Mists had given him—no good Findsman could . . .  
  
“Begging the pardon of Your Mystical Honors.”  
  
All the heads in the room turned toward the doorway, where a servant in a slate-blue coat and a green sash stood with a folded printout in his hand.  
  
“Gand has an important message to deliver to His Mystical Honor Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.”  
  
Fengor rose and approached the servant, who bowed and presented him with the printout. He unfolded it and read it, then sank dejectedly back into his chair, his eyes half-closed in shame, his forehead resting in one hand.  
  
“By the Holy Madman . . .”  
  
“What does it say?” asked a nearby Findswoman with copper-colored eyes.  
  
Fengor took a long hissing breath out and read aloud to the assembly:  
  
“Narrowly escaped rockslide on Mount Rhangneth’tha. Intuition’s Hand toppled taking several other formations with it. Almost took one step too far but heard voice of little brother in head calling out. Master Findsman Okkfel safe. On way home. Regards to Mother. Your devoted son, Gorruss Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.”  
  
An awed silence fell over the room, punctuated only by the occasional soft click of mandibles snapping open in surprise. The glowing, orblike compound eyes of the assembled _ruetsavii_ turned toward young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, still huddled on the bench in the corner.  
  
“The young one . . . Friend Fengor . . . ”  
  
It was Volokoss, who had drawn closer to Fengor and touched his shoulder. He gave a hesitant click of his inner mandibles, then continued:  
  
“Has the Uncanny One appeared at last in your lineage?”  
  
At this a flurry of awed whispers whirred up from those assembled, only to be silenced with one glance from Fengor’s angry silver eyes. Volokoss slipped back to his place and said no more.  
  
But even Fengor himself barely spoke for the remainder of the meeting, and when he did, he called himself by his first name or family name, rather than by the first-person pronoun that was his privilege as a _januwine_. And on the way home he was almost completely silent, occasionally eyeing his son sidelong and mumbling the words:  
  
“The Uncanny One.”

* * *

The next day, another Temple servant in a slate-blue uniform arrived at the Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd home, this time with another message for the younger son of the family:  
  
The Findsmen Elders of Gand hereby bestow their blessings and congratulations upon Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, son of Fengor _saa_ Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd and Otila Khassvani _uur_ Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, and charge him to appear before them ten days from the receipt of this message, so that he may be evaluated for initiation into the sacred ways of the Findsman.


	3. Chapter 3

“It is not right,” grumbled Fengor. “Not right at all.”  
  
It was the tenth day after the young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd had intuited the fall of Intuition’s Hand during the meeting of the _ruetsavii._ Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd was seated at the helm of his ship, a repulsorlift-driven light transport by the name of _Guardian’s Glory_. Beside him sat his wife, and their youngest son was strapped into one of the rear passenger seats. They were cruising high above the golden-orange mists of Rhaguin toward the Great Temple in answer to the summons of the Findsmen Elders.  
  
“What is not right, dear Fengor?” asked his wife. “Are you not proud that the Mists have so lavishly bestowed their intuitive gifts upon our son? To keep those gifts from being nurtured and developed is a dreadful offense against the Mists and against all Gand.”  
  
“Gifts or no gifts, he’s far too young,” declared Fengor. “The Findsman’s rituals are dangerous for those who are not ready for them in body and spirit. The Findsmen Elders know that. If they think that one measly mock Hunt and a childish outburst in front of the chief _ruetsavii_ makes one worthy of initiation in the Sacred Trade, then they have gone out of their minds.”  
  
“Do not speak of the Elders so,” Otila reproached him, with a scolding clack of her mouthparts. “Besides, that ‘childish outburst’ saved your first-born’s life. You saw the message yourself.”  
  
“That is precisely what is not right, Otila. Gorruss is the elder son; he has almost completed his studies, so why could he not see in the Mists that the rocks would fall? And yet his puny, nameless infant brother could.”  
  
“But remember, dear one, the prophecy specifically says . . .”  
  
“BLAST AND BEFOG THE PROPHECY!” sputtered Fengor, his mouthparts clattering. Otila recoiled from the droplets of spittle that went flying from them. “It was all happenstance, nothing more. The intuitive power that flows through the Great Temple sometimes has . . . unusual effects on the minds of the young and untrained. And in any case, true Findsmen go about their business quietly and do not make fools of themselves before their betters.”  
  
“There was a time when you would have begged to differ,” clacked Otila. “I suppose you think his finding of Ossluk’s log was coincidence also?”  
  
“It is still not right.”  
  
In the rear of the transport, young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd gazed absently out the window, trying his best to ignore his parents’ conversation. Since his revelation in the _ruetsavii_ council chamber, he had heard the same complaints from his father over and over again, day by day, and the same attempts from his mother to plead on her son’s behalf, which his father always ignored or dismissed. Fengor always became especially indignant whenever his wife mentioned “the prophecy”—whatever that was; Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd never quite got up the nerve to ask. But it didn’t matter so much now, for he finally had the opportunity he had always dreamed of: he was on his way to the Great Temple of Gand to prove his own intuitive talents and hopefully become apprenticed in the ways of the Findsman. Maybe then his cantankerous old father would finally be convinced.  
  
At last, as dusk was beginning to fall, _Guardian’s Glory_ emerged from a lambent cloud cover of shimmering gold interspersed with red-orange mist. From his window Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd could see the alabaster spires and domes of the Sacred Capital reaching devotedly upward, wreathed in the glowing vapors. Far below, rich gardens full of jewel-like colors twined around the spired buildings, adorning the city as with garlands of flowers. An immense golden dome, encircled by white towers far taller than any in the surrounding city, loomed up from the edge of what looked like a wide, deep sea or lake, from whose silvery surface wispy white vapors ascended to join the golden mists above.  
  
A droid’s voice crackled to life on the commlink.  
  
“ _Guardian’s Glory_ cleared for landing on pad four.”  
  
Fengor steered the ship downward toward a landing pad in the middle of one of the gardens. Within minutes he had touched down, and he and his family disembarked.  
  
Besides a small detail of honor guards in slate-blue uniforms and armor, several others were stationed on the landing pad waiting for them. First there were the same three _ruetsavii_ who had visited the mock Hunt, again dressed in ornate ceremonial garb. One, seemingly the eldest of the three, carried a tall staff topped with a crystal orb that glistened in the light from the clouds. Standing with them were a Master Findsman and his apprentice, the latter being none other than Gorruss, the elder son of Fengor and Otila. Young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd recognized his brother’s master as Okkfel Taagu, an old friend of his father’s who had visited his household often; he was large and bulky, with knobbly, snarling mandibles.  
  
As Fengor, Otila, and their younger son disembarked, Gorruss came up and embraced them, tapping their arms and shoulders rapidly with the claws of both hands as he did so. Then the family approached the three _ruetsavii_ , who greeted them with great deference and ceremony, bowing low to Fengor and Otila and bestowing all the usual gestures of blessing upon their two sons, particularly on the younger. He beheld them with great awe and curiosity as they hovered over him and blessed him. The intricate embroidered patterns on their robes seemed to shimmer as they waved their hands above his head, shoulders, and heart, pronouncing their benisons in solemn and lyrical tones.  
  
When they had had done with the formal greetings, the whole group walked together down one of the Temple’s many corridors, with one guard in slate blue leading them and another taking up the rear. The _ruetsavii_ and Okkfel conversed with Fengor and Otila in the manner of old friends reuniting; it was hard for Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd to make out exactly what they were saying, but he did hear his name mentioned often. He walked behind the adults, with his brother beside him in his apprentice’s robes, his steel-gray eyes directed straight ahead of him.  
  
Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd looked around him as he walked. They were in a shadowy echoing hallway that seemed, judging by the echo of their boots on the floor, to have a vaulted ceiling. Occasionally the gloom was broken when the entire hallway seemed to be transmuted into a tube of smoothly undulating colored light that seemed to swim alongside the walking group. One hue melded gracefully into the next, much like the shimmering mists outside in the sky. Another turn, and they were again submerged in dim, echoing darkness—but this time small patches of bright colors occasionally gleamed through the shadows. The young Gand thought he could hear music far in the distance, strangely beautiful and ethereal music sung by some faraway choir.  
  
“‘THE PALM! GORRUSS! TURN BACK!’”  
  
He spun around suddenly at the sound of his brother’s voice, combined with a playful claw-flick to the side of his head.  
  
“It was the strangest thing to hear you shrieking like a rutting _trs’kin_ right inside Gorruss’s head,” he continued. “Gorruss has heard Mother and Father do that many times, but never you. Anyway, Gorruss supposes he should congratulate you, little brother.”  
  
“Thank you, brother Findsman Gorruss,” replied his younger brother quietly.  
  
“So Gorruss hears they are planning to make an apprentice out of you, too. You know what that means, of course. You will spend about half a day with crusty old Master Findsmen who will be either asking you silly questions or poking and prodding you all over. And the entire time you will be wearing nothing but a nightshirt with a few runes on it. Can Gorruss count on you not to soil the holy words of the Book of Light while you are lying on the examination table?”  
  
Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd winced. “Of course, brother.”  
  
“Gorruss is really only being facetious. Certainly it will not be so bad for one of _your_ talents.” He gave his brother another flick to the side of he head. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd winced again but took no real offense; his brother had always been like this.  
  
They walked on a little farther through the glowing, echoing hallways, saying nothing to each other. Eventually Gorruss tapped his brother on the shoulder and said:  
  
“What’s wrong, little Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd? Is this really the fearless little Gand who stole back Ossluk’s log and foretold the fall of Intuition’s Hand in front of all the _ruetsavii_? You’re about to be evaluated for apprenticeship in the Sacred Trade, for fog’s sake. Why so full of gloom?”  
  
Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd gave a hiss of resignation. There was no use hiding his feelings any longer. He moved closer to his brother and lowered his voice to a whisper.   
  
“It’s . . . it’s Father.”  
  
“Oh, you should know better by now than to let Father get under your plates, little brother,” clacked Gorruss.  
  
“No, no, it’s worse,” insisted Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, then told him of his father’s reactions to his recent accomplishments. “But back when you caught the entire group of mock fugitives that time in R’gnnath, he was beside himself with joy. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd remembers. Why is he so different now?”  
  
“Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd regrets he does not know,” replied Gorruss. “But do not take it to heart, little brother. Father is just a cross old thing and always will be.”  
  
They walked on in silence. It seemed that the flowing colors on the hallway’s walls were growing dimmer and duskier, and that the adults’ voices ahead of them were becoming more and more hushed, rendering the distant music clearer and clearer.  
  
Suddenly a thought burst into Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd’s mind. He tapped his brother on the arm with one claw.  
  
“Brother Findsman Gorruss?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“What is the Uncanny One?”  
  
Gorruss’s mouthparts popped open quizzically. “Why do you want to know about the Uncanny One, little brother?  
  
“Because . . . because Father said—”  
  
“What, does Father think _you’re_ the Uncanny One?!”  
  
“Brother, _not so loud!_ ”  
  
“Apologies, apologies! Don’t get your abdomen out of joint!” He inhaled and lowered his voice. “Well, you know that Father is the Guardian of Trynfor’s Vault, and that Gorruss will be the Guardian after Father dies . . .” He broke off and clacked scoldingly. “Oh, for fog’s sake, little brother, didn’t Father ever tell you about any of this?”  
  
“NO!” The younger brother stamped his foot, causing a clattering echo off the vaulted stone around them. At once the procession halted, and all the adults walking ahead of the two brothers turned to face them, glaring down at them sternly with glowing compound eyes. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd gripped his older brother’s arm as he heard the unmistakable censorious _crrick-crrack_ of his father’s mandibles.  
  
“Apologies, Father . . . Mother . . . Your Mystical Honors . . .” he whispered, bowing his head. Without a word the adults turned and began walking again.  
  
“So Father never told you?” asked Gorruss in muted tones as they continued their progress through the stone corridors. “How strange. He told Gorruss all about it when Gorruss was your age. Well, you certainly know about Zukfel Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, your and Gorruss’s ancestor.”  
  
“Yes. The _tarnuur_ of Trynfor the Mad.” The younger brother could not stifle a click of pride. “Everyone knows that.”  
  
“The very same. When the Holy Madman died, he had no children, so he entrusted his secret treasure to Zukfel and bound him and his first-born descendants to guard it forever. Those are the Guardians, and Father’s one of them. But the Holy Madman also prophesied that the treasure would finally be revealed to all of Gand by a descendent of Zukfel who would be blessed with prodigious gifts from the Mists but not a first-born. That is the Uncanny One. And when that happens—”  
  
Suddenly Gorruss broke off and began tapping his brother urgently on the shoulder. The group had just arrived in a tall stone rotunda. High above their heads, tall windows of the same strange organic glowing colors that had adorned the corridors—full of the same swimming misty forms as the hallways, yet even more airy and beautiful—stretched upward toward a softly iridescent golden dome. Just below each window was a metal grille, seemingly a vent of some kind. In the very center of the room, steps descended to what looked like an empty pool, large enough to hold an average-sized adult Gand. Nine other august and richly clothed Findsmen and Findswomen stood around this pool, facing the newcomers. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd found his attention drawn to the very top of the dome, from which an otherworldly golden light, like a piece of a star, glowed down at him. From the center of that glow the strange, beautiful voices poured forth more clearly than ever.  
  
The three Findsmen leading the group stopped and turned to face the Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd family. The elderly male carrying the staff inhaled deeply—the hiss of his breath echoed on the round walls—and began to speak in solemn, lofty tones:  
  
“Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd. In the name of the Sacred and Visionary Mists of Gand, we bid you welcome.”  
  
He paused. The youngster glanced up briefly, noticing that the ethereal singing had suddenly become hushed. The strange old Findsman spoke again.  
  
“We have heard that you have shown through your recent accomplishments an unusual and precocious talent in the powers of the Mists,” he said, his lofty words echoing on the stones of the Temple. “We wish to see this talent for ourselves, to determine your readiness for initiation into the mysteries of the Findsman.”  
  
The elder struck his staff on the floor with a loud crack that echoed through the round room. Young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd snapped to attention as the faraway voices burst forth once again. Out of the corner of his silver compound eyes he noticed that the hand on his shoulders was no longer that of his brother but that of one of the three _ruetsavii_ who had met them at the landing pad, a tall, stately female in dark crimson robes. A second dignified-looking personage, a male with greenish eyes, stood at his other side.  
  
“Take him and prepare him for the evaluation.” The elder’s command boomed above the singing voices. “And you, young one, have no fear. The Mists have shown you great favor.”


	4. Chapter 4

In silence the two _ruetsavii_ led their young charge down a dimly lit corridor to the testing wing of the Great Temple. First he was brought to a small but comfortable curtained alcove, where he was instructed to change from his regular clothing into the garment that lay waiting for him there: a long, baggy gown of white linen with mystical script embroidered along its hem, neck and sleeves. It was indeed “a nightshirt with a few runes on it,” just as his brother had told him, and it was extremely large on him, trailing on the ground.  
  
After he emerged, he was led down a short hallway into a round stone room. Its walls were lined with tall shelves, filled to brimming with not only with all manner of books and parchment scrolls but also strange, quaint weapons and contrivances of all descriptions, no doubt taken from the inner pockets and gear-pouches of Findsmen of long ago. A round meditation couch, draped in dark purple cloth embroidered with mystical inscriptions, sat in the very center of the room, directly below a small, round white lamp that was the room’s only source of light. Beside the couch sat a small three-legged table. Floor cushions of sundry shapes, sizes and colors lay scattered about the stone floor.  
  
The two elder Gands motioned for Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd to take his seat on the round couch. After he had done so, they sat down upon two of the cushions on the floor and closed their eyes. It looked to him as though they were meditating, or at least reflecting; all he could do was watch.  
  
The Findswoman in the crimson robes, apparently the elder of the two, opened her eyes first. They were a deep metallic cobalt blue, and although the dim light made them dusky, they seemed to Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd to be even more piercing and searching than any of his father’s glares.   
  
“They darkens the eye but clarify the mind,” she intoned, clearly and slowly, as though she were pronouncing a mystical incantation. “What are they?”  
  
“The Mists,” Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd replied, taking a quick breath in.  
  
“As a flicker, it strengthens you, but as a bonfire it burns you down,” added the green-eyed Findsman.  
  
The young Gand thought for a moment. “Anger?”  
  
Again it was the Findswoman’s turn. “What can you catch and hold, but never touch?”  
  
“Air? . . . Breath.”  
  
“When you are all alone, to whom can you turn?”  
  
“To yourself,” answered Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, relieved that it was nothing harder.   
  
Thus they continued, taking turns asking him riddle after riddle, question after question, in quick succession. It reminded Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd a little of when his parents used to read riddles to him from the big red book of riddles in the family library, then ask him to guess the answer. After much practice he had eventually learned the answers to all of them. But most of the riddles he was hearing now were new to him; he often found himself just guessing their answers, and the dispassionate bearing of his examiners offered him no clues whatsoever as to whether his answers were right or wrong.  
  
Finally, after almost a full hour, it was the younger Findsman’s turn again. His green eyes glinted almost mischievously as he leaned close to Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd and said to him:  
  
“It is the sickness that brings the only true healing. It is the weakness that brings the only true strength. It is the captivity that brings the only true freedom.”  
  
The young Gand paused and racked his brain. How could sickness bring health, or weakness strength, or captivity freedom? He did not know how long he sat there, eyes to the ground, not knowing what answer he could give the two august Findsmen who were waiting for him. It was the voice of the cobalt-eyed Findswoman that finally rescued him from his chagrin.  
  
“He is still too young for that one, Ussar,”she said to her colleague, laughing and clacking her mandibles a little. “He will learn the answer in due course.”  
  
With that, both closed their eyes and fell silent once again. No doubt they were engaged in another meditation, consulting the Mists for Their authoritative verdict on how the youngster was doing so far. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd tried to dissipate his restlessness by trying to decipher the inscriptions embroidered on his gown and woven into his the coverings of the couch. The script was just different enough from everyday _h’zav’Gand_ —the everyday Gand vernacular—that he could not.   
  
Again the blue-eyed Findswoman emerged first from her reflection, followed shortly by her green-eyed colleague.  
  
“Glance around yourself, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd,” she said, “and describe thoroughly everything that you see.”   
  
The young Gand took a leisurely look around the room and was about to throw one more cautionary glance at a bookcase he had missed, but the green-eyed Findsman clacked in disapproval.  
  
“Do not look again,” he chided. “Use your intuition only.”  
  
“Apologies, Your Mystical Honor . . . Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd saw . . .” He closed his eyes for a moment and took a few slow breaths in and out. “Seven shelves, four full of books, three full of tools and weapons—”  
  
“Name some of the books that were there.”  
  
Again he paused, closed his eyes, concentrated. “Diaries, ships’ logs, Temple records, atlases . . . a Book of Light with a jeweled cover . . . Kyvr Yuun’s travel diary . . . the epic of Zuika . . . Trynfor’s complete works in three volumes . . . ” He clenched his eyes tighter, fighting the temptation to look back at the shelves. “And about ten small white books the size of Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd’s fist.”  
  
“Which are what?”  
  
“The Great Temple’s account books for . . .” He paused and fidgeted a little with his sleeves. “Gardeners and landscapers. From the last . . . two centuries.”  
  
The two examiners looked at each other for a moment, then closed their eyes in reflection again. Having finished, they turned again to face their young subject.  
  
“And now describe the contents of the other three shelves.”  
  
“One had all weapons, if Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd remembers correctly . . . vibroknives of all sizes . . . from tiny shivs the size of Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd’s little finger to blades as long as Your Mystical Honor’s arm . . . shockstaff cartridges . . . shockstun capsules for snare rifles, most of them broken . . .” Again he gripped his sleeves nervously. “There was one with medicine bottles . . . healers’ tools . . . scalpels and probes and tongs . . . one of the scalpels was all of platinum . . .”  
  
“And anything else?” Ussar’s voice seemed tinged with disappointment.  
  
“No—that is—yes, Your Mystical Honor . . .” Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd closed his eyes tightly, ground his innermost pair of mandibles together, and clenched his firsts as he tried to glean some last slivers of insight.  
  
“Ussar will put it another way. What is the most rare and valuable of all the artifacts in this room? Ussar is surprised that it did not register in your intuition.”  
  
“Most rare and valuable . . . most rare and valuable . . .” The young Gand knew he sounded awkward repeating those words, but he did not care. “There’s the miniature portrait of Zukfel Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, but that can’t be . . . is it . . . is it . . . the box?”  
  
“Which box?”  
  
“The box . . .” For some reason Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd felt a new wisp of insight creeping through him like vapor from the surface of a pond at night. “The box on the shelf with the healers’ tools . . . A medicine box. It contains three jeweled collar-clips, a small lump of scented powder-stone, and a vial of _k’zoor-_ root tonic.”  
  
“Good, good,” said the blue-eyed Findswoman, giving a few serene mandible-clicks. “You are mostly correct about its contents: there are four collar-clips, not three, and only two of them have jewels. But that is indeed the most valuable object in this room.”  
  
She rose quietly from her cushion and carefully reached an ornate lacquered box down from its shelf, taking care not to disturb the numerous curious and fragile artifacts that surrounded it, and set it on the three-legged table for young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd to see.  
  
It was a beautiful piece of workmanship. The smooth black lacquer was adorned with finely detailed scrollwork reminiscent of coiling mists, though with flowers and foliage intertwined. Amid these delicate decorations, in the center of the lid, was the image of a Findsman sitting deep in meditation, cupped hands upraised toward the surrounding swirls.  
  
“Can you say anything else about this box, now that it is here before you?” asked the Findswoman.  
  
Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd put out his hand tentatively, barely touching the lid, then drew it away.  
  
“It has . . . it has clockwork,” he said. “It plays a song.”  
  
“Yes indeed, young one, though anyone can tell that from the key underneath.” She clicked her mandibles enigmatically. “And what song does it play?”  
  
Ussar’s mouthparts popped open in surprise. “Stavrien, how could he know that unless he—”  
  
“He can,” his colleague interrupted him quietly but firmly. “Stavrien only asks him this because she knows he can. Young one, if you need to, you may take time to . . . ponder the question.”  
  
“Yes, Your Mystical Honor.”  
  
Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd squeezed his eyes closed and ground his inner mouthparts pensively. His two distinguished examiners were showing so much confidence in him; he could not bear the thought of disappointing them. What song did it play? Findsmaster Ussar was right: how could he know?  
  
Would the Mists know? It was said they sang constantly, in tones inaudible to mortal Gand . . .  
  
He began breathing. This time he would not even try to visualize the Mists—only to listen to Them, to try against all odds to hear that unheard music of Theirs. For many, many breaths he sat there, hearing nothing but the silence of the testing room, of his examiners’ expectation. But at last he became aware of distant, airy tones that began slowly to join themselves into wispy strains and finally into familiar melodies, flowing one into another as they wafted through his consciousness: a hunting song his father and brother used to sing while preparing to go on missions . . . a solemn temple hymn . . . one of the traditional meditative chants . . . a tender lullaby his mother used to sing to him . . .  
  
Ng’xvi-Ta'al-Lhúd thought for a moment about that lullaby. He could never remember the words—like so many of his mother’s songs, they had to do with something tiresome and sentimental like being in love. But he had always rather liked the tune. . . . Forcing air through his triple-layered mandibles, he began to whistle.  
  
As he did, Stavrien opened the lid of the box. There was a metallic click, then little invisible bells began to tinkle forth the very same tune, in the very same key.   
  
Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd opened his eyes and fixed them on the box as he continued whistling. The inside of the lid was decorated with the same delicate, quasi-floral scrollwork as the outside, though with a very different image in its center: this time the Findsman was trampling some miserable, struggling captive underfoot while thrusting a large discharger staff at his throat. The main compartment of the box did indeed contain four metal clips, a small lump of soft pink stone, and a miniature glass vial of bright green liquid.  
  
Ussar, meanwhile, shifted nervously on his own cushion and gave a few nervous clacks.  
  
“Yes, a beautiful old song,” he interposed. “But everyone knows it, of course.” And he began to sing with the silvery, enigmatic melody:  
  
 _“Strike and wound and heal, O fierce beloved!_  
 _Clap this heart in binders, and then it shall be—”_  
  
He broke off as he hit a sudden harsh discord with both the music box and the younger Gand.  
  
“What?!” he exclaimed. “But that’s not how it goes . . . Ussar swears . . . ”  
  
Yet, even as he protested, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd continued whistling in perfect time and unison with the music box, even as the melody slowed with the winding down of the clockwork. At last Stavrien closed the lid, silencing the music.  
  
“Yes, everyone knows this beautiful old song,” she said. “But not everyone knows the longer variant version sung in the colony of Rhak’zel three hundred years ago. That version survives only in the clockwork of this box, which was a courtship gift from the Holy Madman to the Findslady Isthien. It is never taken from this room, and, as you know, the testing wing of the Great Temple is guarded with the utmost care.” All three pairs of her mandibles clacked open and closed as she leaned toward the young Gand sitting on the couch before her. “So how is it that you know this song, young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd?”  
  
For a few moments Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd lowered his head and fidgeted awkwardly with the baggy sleeves of his gown. Then, with a sudden resolve, he drew himself up, looked Stavrien in the eye, and said:  
  
“Because the Mists sang it to him, Your Mystical Honor.”  
  
“You must tell Findslady Stavrien the truth,” put in Ussar abruptly.  
  
“Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd _is_ telling the truth!” He sprang to his feet, fists clenched; the heat of anger was rising within him, heedless of the high rank of those he addressed. “Your Mystical Honors allowed him time to ponder the question, and while he did, the Mists sang him this song!”  
  
Ussar rose as well. “Your impertinence is unseemly, young one,” he growled. “If you wish to learn the Sacred Trade, you must learn to have humility before your elders and betters. And how to tell the truth.”  
  
“Vlee! Peace!” ordered Stavrien, gripping her colleague’s arm in her claws and forcing him back to a seated position. “Why should you and Stavrien doubt him, after what has been told to us?”  
  
“But—”  
  
“Young one, do not fear.” Stavrien was still looking at sternly her colleague as she spoke these words. “We are not angry, and you have done no wrong.”  
  
“Thank you, Your Mystical Honor.” Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd’s response was a near whisper.  
  
Once more Stavrien closed her eyes, and Ussar did the same. Another seeming eternity of silence passed; as it did, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd glanced over at the lacquered box on the table, now silent as its lid showed once again the peaceful image of meditating Findsman. At last both examiners opened their eyes and rose. Young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd did the same, as was proper.  
  
“Thank you, young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd,” said Stavrien. “We have heard all we need to hear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ussar Vlee is one of the _ruetsavii_ who comes to examine Ooryl in _X-Wing: The Bacta War_ by Michael Stackpole. This may be him at an earlier stage of his career in the Findsman hierarchy.
> 
> As a bonus little multimedia adjunct to this chapter, you may listen [here](https://soundcloud.com/user254680063/testing-room-music-box-peerless-hunter) to a live recording of the tune from the music box, performed by yours truly.


	5. Chapter 5

Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd was shown to another round stone room in the Temple, empty except for an examination table set in the center of the room and a black folding screen sitting off to one side. A white sheet, embroidered with more inscriptions that he could not read, was draped over the table. Directly overhead a round lamp shed icy white light on the gray stone walls.  
  
Presently the door opened, and in walked an old, decrepit-looking Gand male in a simple, rather grubby and tattered gray cloak. From the various pouches, vials, and strange little metal tools hanging from his belt and jutting from his pockets, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd guessed that he must be one of the healers of the Great Temple. Though not full-fledged Findsmen themselves, temple healers—whether at the Great Temple or the smaller temples of individual sects—had some basic training in the Findsman’s meditative arts and made regular use of them to ascertain their patients’ conditions and make diagnoses. Accordingly (and his parents had stressed this ever since his first routine visits to healers as a small child) it was still considered appropriate to treat a healer with all the deference and respect due to a Findsman.  
  
It thus came as somewhat of a surprise to Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd when the old healer clasped his hands across his chest and bowed to him.  
  
“Good day in the name of the Mists, young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.” He spoke slowly, in a somewhat quaint accent, drawing out the vowels in the name.  
  
“Good day, Your Mystical Honor.”  
  
“You are much younger than most who seek the path of the Mists. Thus Wotruk must examine you and ascertain whether you would be able to withstand the physical hardships of Findsmanhood should the Mists will that you become apprenticed.”  
  
“Yes, Your Mystical Honor.”  
  
“Now, if you would be so good as to position yourself upon the table here.”  
  
The young Gand obeyed. With some difficulty he mounted the examination table and squirmed onto his back, pulling the folds of his gown behind him. Without another word, the old healer began to examine his young patient’s body in detail. First he ran his finger along each of Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd’s mandibles, then peered inside his mouth, then then felt each exoskeleton plate with two fingers, then probed between the plates with various tools from his belt in order to examine the joints; the young Gand squirmed at the cold touch of the metal on his soft interstitial tissue. He was not sure exactly what the old healer could feel or tell by probing every square centimeter of him, and here as in the first testing room he received no indication of how things were going.  
  
The examinations continued. Wotruk took his young patient’s pulse, checked his reflexes, peered into his eyes and earholes, drew a blood sample from between the chitin plates of his right leg, and swabbed inside his mouth and earhole for cell samples. Just as with the initial palpation, everything was done excruciatingly slowly and carefully, and the healer insisted on absolute stillness and quiet.  
  
At last Wotruk opened a closet door set into one wall, from which he removed a cart containing a large boxlike metal device with a few controls and a small, rudimentary viewscreen. This he wheeled up beside the examination table and powered up with a flick of an old-fashioned toggle switch.  
  
“It has been mentioned that you have some small ability in the Findsman’s intuitive meditation, even though you are not yet apprenticed,” the healer said as he attached three electrodes to the young Gand’s head, “Is that true, young one?”  
  
“Gand thinks so, Your Mystical Honor.”  
  
“Now, please be so good as to enter the state of meditation so that Wotruk can take a reading of your brainwaves.”  
  
“Gand will try, Your Mystical Honor.”  
  
“Excellent.” Wotruk tapped a few controls, and the machine beeped and clicked in response.  
  
Again Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd closed his eyes, just as he had done during his previous round of testing. This time, however, instead of breathing deeply, he began humming the tune from the music box. It was well known that Findsmen sometimes entered their meditations by chanting or singing to themselves, and Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd was determined to try this approach for himself now that he had a pleasant tune fresh in his mind. For several minutes he lay there with his eyes closed, listening—to his own humming, to the quiet clicking of Wotruk’s claws on the controls, to the low beeping of the machine, and to occasional mutterings from the old healer:   
  
“Common sentimental ditty . . . Befoggèd trinket, they should lock it up . . . the son of Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd should know better . . .”

* * *

 _Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd._  
  
That one name plunged the young Gand straightaway into trancelike, swirling darkness.  
  
 _Father._  
  
 _The Guardian._  
  
 _The Guardian stands before the long, broad window of his Temple quarters, watching the wispy silver vapors rising from the great misty void at the Sacred Capital’s edge. Night is falling; a gray haze is creeping in, dimming even more the purple and blue of an already dreary day. Storm-fogs threaten; menacing bursts of rain bespatter the glass._  
  
 _It is much like a day from many years ago that the Guardian remembers well: the day his younger son was born. He stood before this very same window as his beloved wife, his own Otila, with all the healers of the Great Temple surrounding her, toiled and bled to bring their second son to the light of the Mists. A full rotation of pain and woe culminated in three whole days of harsh labor. With her first she had been able to ease her discomfort by meditating; with her second she was unable to extract a single speck of soothing intuition from the Mists. Her Findswoman’s sense was being sapped away from her, she said, just as a gardener saps all the nectar from his_ ik-ga _bushes at the end of the cold season to keep the nail-grubs away._  
  
 _Now the Guardian stands awaiting the verdict of his fellow_ ruetsavii _concerning the same son born that stormy night, the same son who had brought his mother such pain and sorrow._  
  
 _And tonight, as then, he stands before the window, beholds the angrily swirling storm-fogs, and has a vision._  
  
 _A young Findsman with silver eyes—himself as a youth?—walks slowly toward him, with a strange glowing sphere of energy shimmering golden-green between his strong clawed hands. Before the Guardian can grasp the jeweled vibroblade inside his cloak, the younger Findsman hurls the glowing orb at him, knocking him to the ground._  
  
 _The Guardian lies helpless, unable to move as his strange young double stoops down and wrenches open his cloak and tunic, leaving his neck and chest bare in one of the Findsman’s most degraded attitudes of defeat. With one knee on the Guardian’s chest, he rifles through the Guardian’s inner pockets, wresting forth blades, ammunition cartridges, binders, chronometers, even the miniature illuminated Book of Light that had belonged to Zukfel long ago. Everything he finds he dashes ruthlessly to the floor. Then, with claws larger and sharper than the Guardian’s ever were, he wrenches from the clasps of Guardian’s cloak the tassels signifying him to be_ janwuine _—one of greatness, worthy of first-person self-reference._  
  
 _Finally, in a single, swift, horrible motion, his spiked fist pierces the chitin of the Guardian’s chest, dispatching him with a final bloodcurdling shriek to foggy oblivion . . ._

* * *

Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd awoke with a jerk to find himself in the very room he had just seen in his vision—if vision indeed it had been, for it had felt more like a horrible fever-dream: the Guardian’s Quarters. He lay on an upholstered bench in the central room of the quarters, with a worn-looking dark gray garment—one of his father’s field cloaks—thrown over him to serve as a blanket. Over him loomed the black stone statue of the two ancient Findsmen. They were, of course none other than the two of which his brother had told him: Trynfor, reclining near death, and Zukfel, kneeling at his side and receiving something—the mystical Treasure?—from him in clasped hands.  
  
He sat up and peered around the room. It was empty except for one other—and he started with horror to see who that one other was. His father was standing pensively at the window on the opposite side of the room, contemplating the blue-gray storm-fogs that churned outside—exactly as he had appeared in the vision in the examination room.   
  
Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd froze—partly from fear, partly from the vain hope that his father would not notice him. But that was impossible. How could anything or anyone be brought to the Guardian’s Quarters without the Guardian’s own knowledge? And certainly Fengor had sensed in the Mists his son’s awakening; more likely he was simply ignoring him, perhaps even feigning that he had no younger son, and especially not one who was being evaluated for apprenticeship in the Sacred Trade . . .  
  
Summoning his courage and breathing a brief prayer to the Mists, the young Gand rose and approached the imposing blue-robed form at the window.  
  
“Father?”  
  
Nothing could have prepared him for his father’s reaction. Fengor jumped visibly, stumbling backward several steps. His mouthparts popped loudly open as he half shouted, half gasped:  
  
“No . . . please, no!”  
  
“Apologies, father . . . Gand did not mean to—”  
  
“So, you’re awake at last, are you?” Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd could not help but jump a little as his father came suddenly to himself, his overwhelming fear of a moment ago instantly and inexplicably banished. “You’ve been lying there senseless almost an hour now. The healing wing servants who brought you were clearly deranged or half-witted . . . first they said your brain-scan readings were so far off the scale that they overloaded the scanner, and when I asked why, they said you were asked to meditate during the brain scan. I cannot believe any competent temple healer would ask that of a mere child. Is this true?”  
  
“Yes, Father,” replied the boy. His fear was gone now too; he drew himself up and looked his father in the eye. “Healer Wotruk asked Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd to meditate. And Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd _did_ meditate.”  
  
“Oh, _did_ you, then?” Fengor crossed his arms in a sudden, incredulous gesture, causing a loud, distasteful clack from the exoskeletal plates of his torso. “And what did the Mists show you, boy?”  
  
 _What did the Mists show you?_ If indeed it had truly been the Mists, and not the turbid and obfuscating fogs of illusion, that had shown him what he had seen . . . A spike of pain shot through the young Gand’s head as the terrible image formed again before his mind’s eye: the mysterious young Findsman advancing on his father, forcing him to the ground in defeat and degradation, and finally striking him through the heart, all as the storm’s fury pounded and raged outside . . . And he knew who that mysterious young Findsman was . . .  
  
“ _Father!_ ”  
  
Fengor reeled in horrified surprise as his son threw his slender arms around him in a sudden violent embrace, dislodging his jeweled chronometer from its place on his belt and knocking it to the floor.  
  
“What is this, boy?! What in the Holy Madman’s name are you—”  
  
“Father! Please!” Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd tightened his grip, erupting into sobs as he pressed deeper into the dark blue brocaded robes. “Oh, Father, Gand would never do anything to hurt you! Really! Please believe him!”  
  
“ _Off! At once!_ ” roared Fengor. In one swift motion—an escape technique from the ancient Gand combat arts—he grappled free of his son’s embrace. The youth fell backward to the ground with a shriek.  
  
Just then the door-chime rang. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd scrambled to his feet; Fengor grabbed his timepiece from the floor, hurriedly smoothed his robes, and spun around to face the door.  
  
“Yes? Come in!”  
  
The door opened to reveal a Temple messenger in the typical slate-blue uniform. He bowed low to Fengor with his hands clasped over his chest.  
  
“Gand begs pardon for intruding upon Your Mystical Honor,” he said. “The Council has made its decision. All is prepared.”


	6. Chapter 6

Before he knew it, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd found himself once again hurried into place for another solemn procession. The heavy brocade of Findsmen’s formal robes rustled busily around his diminutive gowned form. One pair of spiked, clawed hands straightened his shoulders and back; another rubbed fragrant ointment on his head; another gently polished the chitin of his arm with a block of sparkling light-blue stone. He could not tell to whom the hands belonged—perhaps Stavrien or Ussar or Wotruk or his mother. He knew they did not belong to his father.  
  
His recent vision still haunted him. Or rather, his vision within a vision—the disconcerting experience of eavesdropping on revelations the Mists had intended primarily for another. Its images flashed through his mind even amid the elder Gands’ attentions and ablutions. He thought of the mysterious younger adversary with the glowing sphere in his hands, whom he had seen throw his father down and strip him of all his tokens of rank and prestige, and who so closely resembled his father as to seem like a younger version of him. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd knew it could be no one but himself; even in his early childhood he had heard others comment on the resemblance between him and his father, and indeed they shared the same silver eyes and brown chitin. But even more frightening was the thought that he could ever be capable of treating his father with such violence, even if the latter _was_ a disagreeable old thing sometimes. And when he had tried to tell his father so, there before the window in the Guardian’s Quarters, all he had gotten in return was anger, repulsion, and—fear . . .  
  
Out of the cornermost facet of his eye, beyond the rustling robes surrounding him, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd glimpsed his brother, Gorruss, now clad in his own ceremonial cloak of deep loden green. He stood off to the side with his master, watching the proceedings and occasionally making gestures of encouragement in his younger brother’s direction. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd wished he could have just a moment to converse with his brother, to tell him about his vision, to ask his opinion of their father’s horrified response. Could it have anything to do with what Gorruss had told him earlier that day about Trynfor’s Treasure, about Trynfor’s Prophecy, about the Uncanny One? Indeed, Gorruss had not even gotten the chance to finish telling him everything . . .  
  
But there was no time now. The procession started on its way through the halls of the Great Temple, and young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd noticed to his dismay that he and his brother would not be walking together this time. Instead he went between Ussar and Stavrien, who guided him by his shoulders. In front of them he saw his brother’s teacher walking beside the slightly stooped, silver-eyed Findsman from the _ruetsavii_ council chamber, and then his parents and Gorruss. Wotruk, the healer, was first in the group, carrying a large crystal orb full of effervescent golden-green liquid.  
  
Slowly and deliberately they trooped through the seemingly endless Temple corridors. Young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd found himself perking up as he began to perceive the distant music he remembered hearing during the first procession. Craning his head, he noticed that several more high-ranking Findsmen in opulent ceremonial attire had joined the procession ahead of Wotruk. They looked straight ahead as they trooped forward, ever erect and stately in their bearing.  
  
They turned down a narrow hallway, darker than the others. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd could barely see more than a few centimeters in front of himself. He wondered how it was that those ahead of him could make their way through the blanketing darkness as confidently as in full daylight. It was only by feeling the two pairs of hands guiding him that he was able to walk forward with confidence. He still heard the distant voices, which swelled ever more clearly as the group processed forward; he also noticed, for the first time, that the echoing boom of boots on the stone took its pace from the far-off song.  
  
Suddenly a bright golden light pierced the gloom. The group had arrived once again at the tall rotunda with the flimmering colored windows and the rectangular pool, which now was filled with clear liquid. Before it stood the elder with the orbed staff who had greeted the family earlier that day. To his right stood Fengor and Otila. High above the ethereal voices filled the round room with otherworldly harmony.  
  
The elder struck his staff thrice on the stone floor. At this signal, the music overhead was silenced, and all present assumed an attitude of prayer, bowing their heads, and folding their hands over their chests. In a deep, clear baritone, the elder began to chant something in the language of the Book of Light. As he did, the Findsmen who had formed the procession arranged themselves into a close border around the pool. Their heads were bowed, and many moved their mouthparts silently in their own murmured prayers.   
  
Again the elder struck his staff, calling out as he did so:  
  
“Forward, Healer Wotruk.”   
  
Wotruk saluted and bowed, then advanced to the pool. He lifted the golden-green orb above his head, where its glow melded for a moment into the misty golden light of the dome. With one swoop he flung the glowing sphere into the still pool. Its waters flared up iridescent and golden on the impact.  
  
All waited silently for the waters to die down. As soon as they did, the officiating elder’s rich tones boomed forth again in a single name, which was then echoed by the choir high above:  
  
“ _Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd._ ”  
  
The young Gand trembled, but Ussar and Stavrien coaxed him forward. The elder addressed him again.  
  
“In the name of the Sacred Visionary Mists and by the authority of the Council of Masters, you have been found worthy to become apprenticed in the sacred ways of the Findsman. It is the unanimous opinion of those who tested you that your intuitive and mystical abilities far surpass what is typical for your years.”  
  
Young Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd could feel his shoulders trembling beneath the hands that supported them. Was it really true? Was he really going to be initiated as an apprentice Findsman? He had dreamed of his moment his entire young life—so why was he so afraid, so uneasy? He remembered why as soon as he saw the silver-edged dark blue brocade of his father’s robes looming in his peripheral vision.  
  
“The customary initiation rites call for a cleansing bath, known as the Waters of Purity,” continued the elder. “But you are younger than most who seek the mystical path of the Findsman. Your body and spirit are thus in need of additional preparation for its sacred mysteries. Therefore it has been decided, with the consent of your parents, that you shall immerse in Trynfor’s Waters.”  
  
A murmur of awe went up form those assembled at the sound of the name.  
  
The elder came closer to the young Gand and knelt to his level. “Perhaps you have heard of Trynfor’s Waters in the old stories,” he began, this time in much quieter, more conversational tones. “They are a recreation of the Holy Madman’s own growth hormone. One day, when he was a mere boy—around your age—the waters sprang up on his body and began to eat away at his chitin. He was most alarmed and in great pain, and no one could help him. At last he ran into the woods and threw himself into a deep pool, where he lay for several weeks in meditation. When he finally arose, his chitin had hardened, and he was fully grown.  
  
“So it shall be with you. Trynfor’s Waters will break down your juvenile plates and slough them off. You will grow to the size of an adult. But it will still take several days for your adult chitin to finish growing, and you will spend your period of recovery here in the Temple under the supervision of healers. Once that period is complete, you will have the body of an adult and a Findsman.”  
  
He paused a moment, then spoke again in the clear, booming tones in which he had begun:  
  
“Do you understand, and are you prepared?”  
  
Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd bowed. “Yes, Your Mystical Honor.”  
  
“Then advance, Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.”  
  
The hands on his shoulders guided him forward to the edge of the pool. Again the mysterious voices overhead began their song, and all present bowed their heads and responded in their own low, solemn chant. Golden mists began to filter in through the metal mist-vents set into the stone wall. The young Gand inhaled deeply . . .  
  
The next moment the shimmering liquid was rushing and surging around him. Its effervescence enveloped his body, tickling as it crept between the chitinous plates of his exoskeleton. These waters seemed infused with the very Mists, surrounding him, enfolding him, and making him Theirs. It was no dream, no vision: he would emerge from them a Findsman, at once servant, guardian, and confidant to the Sacred Visionary Mists forever. Above him the many pairs of faceted eyes peered down at him through the liquid, merging into a gray, foggy blur. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd began to feel himself sinking, the sparkling Waters pouring into his mouth, nostrils and earholes. Was he to drown in the Mists’ own embrace just as They had finished making him Their own? _Please, gentle Mists,_ he prayed, _do not swallow this Gand up in darkness!_  
  
Just then the light of two golden eyes pierced the murk. Their incandescent glow—like incense lamps—seemed to warm and calm the Waters, whose gentle surging now sounded almost like a deep, gentle voice. . . .  
  
“ _Uncanny One . . . Guardian’s son . . . my chosen . . . mine . . ._ ”  
  
Finally the young Gand felt several pairs of claws gently lifting his limp frame from the golden waters. A different voice was sounding in his ears—that of the officiating elder, which resounded through the stone rotunda, half speaking and half chanting:  
  
“Behold Findsman Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, chosen servant of the Sacred Visionary Mists, now and ever and from eternity to eternity.”

* * *

Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd lay prone in bed in the healers’ wing of the Temple, his legs spread apart, his arms stretched out over his head. All his muscles ached. He could not move. Except for his head, his entire body was soft, spongy, and tender, since Trynfor’s Waters had dissolved his chitinous exoskeleton. Ten small black triangular generators placed around the edge of the bed generated a Healing Field around him—paired repulsor and attractor fields that held him rigid and motionless, hovering slightly above the mattress. A blanket covered him, mostly for purposes of privacy; it was too thin and worn to provide warmth.  
  
He was larger now, the size of an average adolescent male of his species. The Waters had caused him to swell up to this new size within a few hours of his immersion. It would be a few more days, however, before his adolescent-sized exoskeletal armor—from which the Findsman’s defensive spikes and serrations would later be able to form—would finish growing to full size, and the slightest movement of any part whose armor had not yet fully hardened would almost certainly result in deformity. Nor were his muscles yet strong or toned enough to move with his larger-sized body; they too would need time to grow. At least his hands and head had completely hardened within the day following his immersion, since they did not have to grow as much as the rest of his body. But in his spread-eagled position there was very little he could do with them, and his head still had to remain motionless in order to allow the armor of his neck and shoulders to harden.  
  
It had already been three full days since he had been brought to the healing wing. Several times a day a healer or Temple servant would come in to check on his growth progress and bring him food. He was hungrier than he had ever been before. Before his bath in Trynfor’s Waters he had not needed more than two light meals a day, nor had he needed to purge his system more than a few times every week. Now, however, the growth hormones from the Waters had caused his muscles to grow so quickly that he needed to take in more nourishment—and pass more waste—than was normal even for a growing youth.   
  
And given his immobile state, eating at least gave him something to do to pass the time. With each day, the sheer boredom of his situation—lying there wide awake, yet unable to move any part of his body—became more and more oppressive. He could not even fall asleep, because his body simply was not tired; as soon as he had been taken from Trynfor’s Waters and brought to the recovery room, he had plunged at once into all the sleep he needed for that week. He could not handle books or datapads until the rest of his arms finished hardening. His mother came to visit him at least once each day, often twice; she would sit with him and tell him stories and sing him little songs just as if he were a tiny child again. She and the healers were the only beings that had come to visit him during his convalescence. His brother had returned to his studies, and his father—well, it came as no surprise to him that his father had not visited him once.  
  
He also tried meditating to pass the time, since he had much on his mind. There were, of course, the usual questions asked by all new initiates: what would happen after his recovery? Who would be the Master Findsman—or Mistress Findswoman—to whom he would be assigned for training in the Sacred Trade? What would his training in the Sacred Trade be like? But he also pondered the experiences of his testing and initiation: the song of the music box in the testing room, the alarming vision he had shared with his father, the immersion in Trynfor’s Waters, the voice, the golden eyes . . . Again and again he closed his eyes to begin meditating on these things, either singing quietly to himself or listening intently to the low, monotonous drone of the Healing Field generators, and each time he did the same two eyes shone forth into his, fixing him with their burning gaze . . .  
  
And then some healer or Temple servant would come in to check on him, feed him, clean him, or otherwise jolt him back to reality.  
  
On the fourth day of his recovery, at around the usual time for his mother’s visit, the door to his room opened. His mother entered, as usual, but she was not alone. With her were four important-looking Findsmen, all of whom Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd recalled having seen before. He recognized the two who had tested him, the cobalt-eyed Stavrien and the green-eyed Ussar; the large, dark, bulky Okkfel Taagu, his brother’s teacher; and finally the stooped Master Findsman with the gray-green chitin and the friendly silver eyes.  
  
“Greetings, dear young one,” said Otila, drumming her claws gently on the upturned side of her son’s head. “Mother comes with important and joyous news for you.”  
  
She beckoned for the three guests to come forward. They ranged themselves close around the side of the bed facing Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, their long robes rustling as they did so. Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd half-closed his eyes, feeling supremely embarrassed to be surrounded by such illustrious visitors in his vulnerable, exposed state.  
  
“Gand offers most humble greeting to Your Mystical Honors,” he said, following the protocol he had learned as a small child.  
  
“Volokoss offers you the same,” said the Findsman with the stoop, kneeling beside Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd and touching his head gently in blessing. “Be of good courage, young one, for great honor has come to you.”  
  
From an inside pocket he produced a large, formal-looking document sealed with four seals, whose colors corresponded to the eye colors of the four visitors. He handed it to Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, who took it and began to remove the seals slowly one by one; the armor of his lower arms had only just finished hardening earlier that day, and he could now use his hands for a few simple tasks. With a little effort he unfolded the document, revealing handwritten words in the most formal calligraphic script of the Gand language.  
  
“Please read that to us.”  
  
The assembled visitors clasped their hands and bowed their heads as Ng’xvi-Ta’al Lhúd began to read, his newly grown hands trembling as he did so:

By the will and authority of the Sacred Visionary Mists  
The _ruetsavii_ and Findsmen Elders of Gand  
Hereby declare  
That the recipient of these letters  
Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd  
Son of Fengor _saa_ Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd  
And Otila _saa_ Khassvani _uur_ Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd  
By virtue of notable accomplishments  
Rendered all the more remarkable  
By the paucity and tenderness of his years  
(Here followed, in formal language, an account of the mock Hunt and the examination in the Temple)  
Has attained to the status of _talwuine_  
And is thus worthy to be addressed  
By the Name designated for him by his Parents and Elders  
ZUCKUSS  
May their blessings be upon him and his forever


	7. Epilogue

In the meditation alcove of his Temple quarters, Fengor Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd opened his eyes. For four days now, ever since the day of his younger son’s initiation, he had not been able to glean a single jot of insight from the Mists.  
  
And now, suddenly and violently, a dire intuition—a dreadful hunch—had engulfed his mind in a sudden miasma of black fog.  
  
 _Is it still there?_  
  
He rose to his feet and burst through the gray gossamer curtains of the alcove into the central room of the quarters, pausing before the immense statue that adorned it: Trynfor the Mad and his faithful _tarnuur,_ Zukfel Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd.  
  
 _Is it still safe?_  
  
He reached up and grasped their clasped stone hands in his own hand, keeping it there for several moments.  
  
 _It must be safe . . . the Mists would have told him if it were not . . ._  
  
He shuddered and closed his eyes. The same dire intuition assailed him again.  
  
 _Or would they have?_  
  
 _What if it already happened long ago, without his knowing . . . ?_  
  
Taking his shockstaff from a closet and feeling in his inner pockets for his jeweled vibroblade, Fengor left the quarters and made his way with urgent footsteps through the endless corridors of the Temple, then descended countless stairwells and lifts to the Temple’s deepest, darkest catacombs—rumored to be halfway to the core of Gand. With the aid of the sacred keys entrusted only to him, he passed through one locked door after another, until he stood before Trynfor’s Vault, the sacred crypt that held Gand’s most precious treasure.  
  
 _No, no, it must be there . . ._  
  
 _Certainly it must . . ._  
  
Fengor put his hand to the door and closed his eyes. Mechanically he put key to keyhole, opening the heavy door to reveal what he already knew.  
  
Trynfor’s Vault was empty.

END OF THE FIRST PART


End file.
